The Inevitable
by TroubledThoughts
Summary: Italy happens to interrupt one of Germany's more private moments. Ger/Ita.


_THE INEVITABLE_

_[Italy happens to interrupt one of Germany's more private moments.]_

_Um, SMUT. Plotless, unabashed, boy-on-boy smut._

_Just saying._

_So, I know the other story I just put up is kinda similar to this. It's got the same premise of Italy just barging in on Germany in the middle of the night, but it's a bit different. There are just so many sexy, sexy places to go with that one idea. Um, I'll try to refrain._

_Also. Haven't updated in forever because college. Yes, I know._

INDISCRETION

It was bound to happen sometime. Italy was always intruding on Germany, at all hours of the day and night. He had no respect for boundaries or, it seemed, common decency. He would bother Germany while he was at meetings, or lying in bed, or making dinner, or even taking a _shower, _for God's sake.

Germany blamed himself for allowing it.

Still, whether he blamed himself or Italy, the situation was no less awkward. Hell, he could blame the fucking _stars in the sky_for his problems, and it still wouldn't matter. There was no two ways around it… It was awkward.

Perhaps it wasn't the act itself of Italy barging in on him. Perhaps it wasn't Italy's offer to 'help him with that'. It was the… Nonchalance… Italy had towards the entire situation. It was the utterly serious look in his eyes. It was the gentle intensity in the way he touched him. It was not the act, no, it was the _manner_in which the act was committed.

It wasn't something Germany was even comfortable with anyway – Touching himself. It was a kind of weakness he would give into every so often, whenever he felt like he had to. It was a need, just like a need for anything else. One needed food so one would not starve. One needed air so one would not suffocate. One needed sexual release so one could focus on more important things.

That was the way Germany looked at it. It wasn't something he did often, and he was only slightly reassured by the fact that all men did it at some point. Still, he always felt… Wrong. Guilty. As if someone were watching. As if someone would somehow find out.

It had been some while. And he had been thinking all the wrong thoughts, and he was lying awake, staring up into the blackness, wondering why it was even necessary to feel things like this, and there was a growing tent in the thin bedsheets as his thoughts continued in the wrong direction.

He denied, denied, denied, denied, but eventually gave in. He shifted and sat up, his feet on the floor, legs a little spread, the blanket in his lap the only thing covering his nakedness. He switched on the lamp on the bedside table. He had taken up Italy's habit of sleeping in the nude. (Hey, it was actually quite comfortable most of the time.) Unlike Italy, he did _not, _however,make a habit of running around, interrupting other people's lives in such a state.

Groaning slightly and rubbing a hand over his eyes at the bright light, (Germany was _not_a night person) he rummaged through a drawer, eventually locating a specific dirty magazine and a small bottle of lotion that he, admittedly, kept just for this purpose.

It was an old magazine. He had had it for a very long time. He had folded the corners of the best pages, and he opened it to one.

He stared down at the fake girls and overly buff men on the page, eyeing them in their various states of undress as they stripped each other down got into all sorts of impossible positions together. He ran a hand down his broad chest and over his stomach, almost in a teasing way. If he had a lover, he thought, perhaps that's how they would touch him.

Then again, if Germany had a lover, he doubted their hands would be as big or as rough as his, anyway. Hell, it wouldn't matter. He wasn't good enough at feelings for sex. It was a very emotional thing. And Germany was too busy, too goal-oriented and logical to get involved in feelings and emotions for someone.

He quit thinking about it and put lotion on his warm hands and rubbed it in. Still, he imagined his hands were someone else's as he removed the blankets from his lap and rubbed his own tightly muscled thighs. He saw hands, perfectly in his head. He knew they were hands he had seen before, even felt before, but could not place them. He wrapped one of his own hands around his thick, hard shaft, rubbing slowly, pulling in a breath, biting his lip at the feeling. A soft hum left his throat. His eyes were closed now, and the magazine would fall to the floor, unnoticed, in a moment. His other hand was busy rubbing heavily over his neck, his shoulders, and his chest, pausing sometimes to roll one of his pink nipples between two fingers, or pinch up a bit of skin, squeezing until it almost hurt. He could feel a dull warmth growing in his stomach, and a sound like a moan escaped his mouth and he increased his pace. He just wanted to come, he just wanted to be finished.

The hand on his chest went to his mouth instead, so he could bite down on one of his knuckles. He opened his eyes, not realizing they had been closed.

Everything stopped. His movements, his breathing, for a second, probably his damn heartbeat too.

He saw the shadow of a man, silhouetted in the lamplight, against the wall. He hadn't even heard anyone come in.

He didn't dare look up, just stayed frozen; hoping whoever it was would just go away, waiting for the shadow to make the first move.

No such luck.

He looked up, even though he knew already, in the back of his mind, it could only be one person.

Italy.

He was right.

He stared right at Italy. He couldn't say a word. Italy had caught him in the most vile, shameful act, and he could only sit, red-handed, and stare at the other man, like an idiot.

That is, until Italy took a step forward, and spoke.

"I could… ah, help you. With that."

Germany couldn't even speak to protest. He was dumbfounded.

By the time he regained the ability to speak, Italy was on his knees in front of him, submissively, willingly.

"Butbut you don't have to… You shouldn't… I just…"

Just because he had the ability to speak did not mean he could speak coherently, apparently.

"Ger-many. Sshhh."

He had never noticed how adorable and sexy Italy sounded saying his name.

What was he thinking? This was _Italy_, for God's sake. _Italy._ Who, as loathe as Germany most times was to admit it, was his friend. His _closest_friend. Italy. Who tried to cook pasta in the desert. Italy, who he constantly had to save from all the evils of the world. Italy. Who…

Was removing Germany's frozen-in-place hand from his penis, and replacing that hand with his own.

For once, Italy was completely silent, and Germany, to his slight embarrassment, could hear the sound of Italy's hand moving against his swollen cock.

By the look on the smaller man's face, he was actually getting something out of this, somehow. Germany watched him, completely defenseless to his touch. He watched the brunette's tongue appear and wet dark lips. He watched one hand lightly, calmingly rubbing his thigh, and when he brought himself to actually look at the other hand, performing its task, he realized something.

The hands. The hands he had imagined earlier were Italy's hands. In any other situation, he would have felt terribly awkward and disgusting.

However, he had no time to think about it. Almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, Italy had relocated his hand to Germany's balls, gently grabbing and squeezing them where they hung heavily between his legs.

Germany sighed, before he could think twice about it. The feeling of Italy's fingers. The motions they were performing. Germany had no idea that someone could make _those_ feel like _that._

The sensation that had once been a dull, lackluster sort of heat was quickly turning into a small but building fire.

And when Italy put his mouth on the slightly-leaking tip of Germany's cock, the fire raged.

The larger country's eyes widened and he choked back a noise as Italy started sucking on him. _Hard._ The instantaneous pressure was so unbearably, suddenlyoverwhelmingly _good_that he grabbed the bedsheets in both his fists, trying so hard to hold back from making noise, trying so hard not to move his hips and choke the other man.

His eyes closed tightly again, his teeth were bared, his expression looking almost pained. Italy's name, along with several curses, stained his lips, but wouldn't let a sound out.

Italy stopped, placed his hands on Germany's knees, and looked up at him.

"I want to hear your voice. I want you to say my name." He moved Germany's hand from tangling in the bedsheets to tangling in his dark hair instead.

He looked up at Germany, looked him right in the eye as he opened his mouth and took Germany in once again.

The hand on Italy's head immediately balled into a tight fist, tugging on his hair, not in an effort to control him, Italy knew, but simply out of Germany's need to hold tight to something, an attempt to get let out a little of the tense, pounding energy coursing through him.

He could not meet Italy's eyes. He couldn't even stand to watch what the smaller man was doing to him. His head was back, his hand on the back of his neck, eyes staring straight up into the dark.

"Italy…" The name was followed by a quiet groan. Germany didn't let himself think about how stupid he probably sounded. In fact, he tried not to let himself think at all. Italy was doing a fine job of helping that cause. His mouth was amazingly hot, and his tongue was soft and playful against Germany's shaft, swirling around it, licking up and down like some sort of exquisite dessert, and when he pressed it against the slit, Germany nearly came right then and there. He yelled out something in his language, some word that Italy had never heard before, and the German's clawing grip on his head at least doubled what it had been.

He bobbed his head, still sucking on Germany as hard as he could, tasting bitterness and salt against his tongue.

He listened to the blonde breathing. It was unsteady, as if each breath took effort.

"Fuck, Italy… You feel so damn good…" He gasped, before slipping into German.

Italy hummed in response, making Germany shudder.

He wasn't going to last. He wasn't going to last, and he knew it, and it was humiliating, and God, he didn't want to tell Italy. Not only did he not want to admit to a weakness, he didn't want the moment to end because he knew it would never happen again. He wanted the feeling of pressure, of heat that made him ache so deliciously. He even wanted the sight of Italy on his knees so sweetly before him. He didn't want it all to disappear.

By the time he could bring himself to say anything, it was already too late.

And Italy left, just as suddenly as he had appeared only minutes ago. He donned a jacket of Germany's and walked out, not a single glance back, leaving the other man in a daze, vaguely wondering if he had just woken up from the strangest dream of his life.

…

_If there's a sufficient amount of interest, I might write another (sexy, sexy) scene. It might perhaps be the one time Germany actually showed up at Italy's at a terribly inconvenient time. So… Let me know._

_I'm no pro at this, so if you find mistakes or anything that could be improved on, do please tell me. (Nicely, though, if you would.)_

_Is it weird that Germany was looking at pictures of girls when he likes Italy too? Well, yeah. But, as awkward as Germany is about that sort of thing, I can't see him having dirty mags of guys. That could mean that he likes girls and guys (or girls and Italy), or that he's gay and won't admit it, or whatever. Interpret it how you want, but don't waste your time asking me._


End file.
